


Aches and Pains

by Imminent_Em



Series: Gathering Ice [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Nightmares, Romance, Self Loathing, Sickness, Slow Burn, sad people, they're still not doing well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11571564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imminent_Em/pseuds/Imminent_Em
Summary: The fire has subsided, malignant doubt seeping into its place. He should have run when he had the chance; fled from her like the coward he was. He isn't sure there ever was a chance. He knows he couldn't have left, no matter what he tells himself.





	1. Chapter 1

Two days after they’d come back from the Abernathy Farm, Nick awoke to the choking sound of a violent coughing fit. The sound ripped him from his sleep in something akin to a panic, dazed; an electric surge ran through him, reminiscent of the rush of adrenaline pre-war Nick used to experience. There were times when he wondered if they were intentional, the little touches like that, or if it was just his mind’s way of trying to mimic what it thought he should be feeling. It felt real enough, the disorientation, the sudden slap back into consciousness. He focused on the sound, his vision cutting through the darkness in a way no human’s could.

Nora, it seemed, had coughed herself awake. She was kneeling under the covers, curled in on herself. Her hands were covering her mouth, trying to smother the hacking coughs that wracked her. Nick pushed himself off the couch, his duster sliding off of him and dropping to the floor. He ignored it, padding quickly over and crouching by her bed. He laid his hand on her back, gently as he could. She was shaking, her body trembling under his touch. Nick could practically feel her lungs desperately heaving, even as she shook her head and gestured weakly. Her voice was wet and raspy, barely audible as she tried to speak in between coughs. “I’m...I’m fi-” she broke off, another fit coming over her.

Nick let his hand rest a little heavier of her back, glaring at her even though he knew she couldn’t see it. “If you try feeding me that lie one more time doll, I swear I will take away your blankets and let you freeze for the rest of this damned season.” Her shoulders shook again, and it took him a moment to realize that she was laughing breathlessly. She coughed even harder, and he felt a pang of guilt for the humor, however earnestly he had meant it. “Hey, Nora,” he said, his voice as low and calming as he could make it. “Breathe for me, alright? Try to breathe.”

She jerked her head, and the shaking lowered a notch as she forced her body to relax, muscles tensing and loosening under his hand. Her eyes were pressed shut, and he could see tears squeezing out of the corners. The coughing finally died down, and she gasped air rapidly in relief.

For a moment, he thought it was over; then, Nora abruptly dove out of her bed, the old springs creaking in her wake as she threw herself past him, towards the beaten metal bucket a few feet away. She tumbled on unsteady feet, dropping to her knees and gripping the bucket tightly ashe she started heaving. Nick winced in sympathy, quickly moving over and sweeping her hair up and away from her face, careful to keep his right from getting tangled in the curls.

It felt to Nick like it went on forever. This close, he could see beads of a cold sweat forming on her ghostly skin. He stayed still, suddenly trying very hard not to think about the unconscious intimacy of their position, how the bare skin of her neck was exposed with her hair like this, how she hadn’t flinched away from his hands. Sure, she was somewhat preoccupied at the moment, but that stray thought lingered in his mind; she really wasn’t repelled by him, or disgusted or scared. Nick tucked the thought away to dwell on later. He had a more pressing issue at the moment.

All told, it probably lasted only for a couple minutes. But it was two minutes of obvious misery for Nora. Finally, the heaving stopped, and Nora went limp with exhaustion, sinking in on herself. Nick slipped one of his hands down to her shoulder and prodded at it lightly. “Come here, doll. Lie back, I’ve got you.” He slowly guided her back so she was leaning mostly upright against his chest.

She laid against him in silence, taking deep, shuddering breaths. Nick’s hands were still on her shoulders. It was strange, being able to feel the absolute aliveness of her, the quivering of muscles under skin. The sensation was reassuring, somehow. She was still there, still aware and breathing under his fingers, no matter how awful her coughs had sounded. He tapped those fingers against her skin, gently, and asked, “You ok, doll? Still nauseous?”

Nora made to shake her head, then stopped herself, nodding carefully. “A bit, yeah. I -” she stopped, clearing her throat with a wet little cough. “I don’t know where that came from. It’s just a cold.”

Nick felt his jaw tightening of its own accord. “Damn it, Nora,” he swore softly. “It's been here all along. You’ve just been ignoring it. And I let you,” he said with more feeling. “I should’ve seen this coming. Stuff like this doesn’t just hit you out of the blue. You’ve been pushing yourself way too hard this past month.”

Nora moved against him and coughed. It took her a moment to answer, but the intervening silence said enough. When she spoke, it was with a low voice, sounding pitiful, ashamed and almost guilty; nothing like the Nora he knew. “I don’t know. I thought it was just a cold, I swear.” She paused, still a little breathless. “I’m sorry, Nick.” Her voice broke on his name, made her sound all the more pathetic as she coughed again.

Nick shifted behind her, sighing. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for, Nora. Anyhow, there’s nothing else to do now but ride it out.” He moved his good hand to her forehead, her skin slick under it. The artificial nerve endings were a bit worn, over a century of use - and abuse - making his skin less sensitive than it had once been. But the heat that radiated from her skin was more than enough to feel. “I think you’ve got a fever.” He tapped her shoulder. “Here, let’s get you comfortable, and I’ll go make you some tea.”

“Just water is fine,” Nora mumbled.

“Tea will settle your stomach,” Nick responded stubbornly. He moved, getting his knees under him again and helping her sit upright on her own.

She sat there for a moment, slouched and shivering. “I don’t think I can get up,” she admitted to Nick, her voice still quiet and raspy.

Nick paused, then nodded, mostly to himself. “That’s fine,” he said, looking around. “Let’s get you up against here.” He helped her turn, leaning her back against the bedframe. Nick left her for a second, snatching his coat back up. He got Nora to lean forward a tiny bit, and he draped it over her shoulders. He grabbed the pillow from her bed as well and tucked that behind her head. She muttered her thanks as he got to his feet, knees aching viciously with the cold. Nick checked that she was alright before shuffling over to the woodstove in the corner. Picking up the poker from where it leaned against the wall, he opened up the stove door to prod at the embers, coaxing life into the fire. He settled a small log in and shut the door. Nick located the metal teapot Nora had found a while back, and ladled water into it from the nearby water bucket. With that set, he opened the stove door again and nestled the pot into the hot coals.

While the water heated, Nick began poking through the cupboards for the tin of hubflower tea he knew was somewhere in there. It took a minuted to find it - he was sure Nora had some kind of system to organise her kitchen, but since Nick didn’t eat, he had never bothered to learn it. After some careful scrutiny, however, he found the tin, a gift from Mama Murphy. Inside were twists of dried hubflower, the wrinkled petal a pale purple. He spooned the mix into a mug he retrieved from the shelf above the stove.

The water took forever to boil, naturally. Nick glanced back at Nora every now and then. She had closed her eyes and leaned her head into the pillow, arms tugging his duster around herself. He heard some smothered coughing from behind him as he puttered around the kitchen, but nothing as bad as what had woken them. Eventually he pulled the pot from the glowing coals, filling the mug and setting the rest on the warmed stove. He made his way back to Nora, placing the steaming mug on the floor next to her and joining her on the ground. “Careful, it’s hot,” he grunted. Nora made a soft croaking sound in reply and gingerly picked it up. His olfactory sensors could pick up the scented steam even from where he sat. The fragrance was rich and appropriately flowery, with a strange tang, as if he could smell the bitterness.

They sat in a tired silence as Nora slowly sipped at the tea. The cold crept up on Nick, tightening in his knees and across his shoulders. It was uncomfortable, but not terrible. He could survive a little longer without his duster. And besides, it was serving a better purpose at the moment. Nora was still shivering, even wrapped around her mug like it was the last bit of warmth on the planet. He wanted to put his arm around her, to lend her some of his heat, but he couldn't quite work up the courage.

Abruptly, Nora set the mug down and put her head against her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs. Nick startled at the sudden movement. “You ok, Nora?”

She let out a moaning sort of sound. “Just nauseous,” she croaked.

“Oh,” Nick said. He settled back against the bed frame, feeling a bit uncertain. It was hard to remember what that was like, being sick to the stomach and shaky with fever. Those memories were faded and dusty to begin with; nobody really wanted to remember what that felt like. He didn't know what to do, other than keep her warm and hydrated and comfortable, and sit at her side.

“Nick,” Nora rasped after a while. “Are  _ you  _ ok?”

Nick eyed her in mild bewilderment. “What’s gotten into you, doll? What do you mean?”

Nora cleared her throat with a painful sound and continued, speaking slowly. “I...don't know. It's just - ever since the snows came in, you've been moving slowly, almost like it hurts. Sometimes you're fine, but others - well.” Nora paused, breathing with more effort than was usually necessary. “I'd call it joint pain, but…” She wandered off, making a vague gesture with one hand.

Nick shifted uncomfortably. Not for the first time, Nora reminded him of the long dead-and-gone Jenny; they looked nothing alike, had wildly different mannerisms, and yet, the shared the same perceptiveness, an insight that came naturally as breathing to them. He coughed lightly, not sure how to explain it. “You're not half wrong, actually,” he grunted. Nora lifted her head the tiniest bit, peering at him in the faint light from the stove. He rubbed at his jaw, continuing. “Price of being old, I guess. And, well, an earlier model.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Way I was built, that's all. I don't know doll, I’m not an engineer.” Nora was silent, waiting in that endlessly patient way of hers.

When he still didn't speak, Nora nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Distract me, Nick. Please?”

Nick huffed out a breath, staring at his lap. “Fine.” He fidgeted with the fringing cuff of his left sleeve, the loose threads catching on his metal fingers. “I don't know exactly what it is,” he started. “Doctor Amari says that when the Institute designed me, they must have wanted me to be able to feel. My...skin doesn't look like much, but it's made out of layers and layers of sensor nets, as the good Doc called them. That's what lets me touch things and actually feel them - and why things hurt.” Nick shifted again, the discomfort with this topic still not abating. He had never like talking about himself, especially as something that had been built. He knew the truth about himself; didn't mean he had to like dwelling on it.

He stopped picking at his sleeve before he ruined it. “Anyhow, Amari said they continued with that idea on the inside. She did some scans of me once, full body stuff. Seems the Institute built me an entire artificial nervous system. Basically, it's made out of these cords that work like the sensor nets. So when I get thrown against something, like the other day, I feel that too.”

Nora’s eyes were glazed and somewhat unfocused, but she was still listening. “So when you said you’d be sore, you meant it.”

“Yeah.” Nick cleared his throat, another useless nervous habit from the original Nick. “It's usually not so bad. Goes away after a day or two.” He brushed absently at his lap. “What you asked about - it's sort of the same thing. I'm essentially a big, walking talking computer. It's better for me to stay cool; keeps me from overheating. But this kind of cold is bad. From what I understand, the metal I'm built from gets cold, and presses against my nervous system, which - well, hurts.” Nick shrugged, a little helplessly. “I don't know, Nora. Like I said, I'm not an engineer. I fix things, I don't design them. All I know is, the winter comes, and my body aches like the blazes.”

Nick would've bitten his tongue if he was still human, to keep himself from going farther, saying too much. Nora was silent for a bit, her forehead pressed against her knees. He thought she might have fallen asleep until she spoke. “I'm sorry, Nick,” she muttered.

“For what?” Nick stared ahead, wrangling with his discomfort. “You're not responsible for this, Nora - even if you do like to think everything is somehow your fault.”

Nora lifted her shoulders weakly. “I didn't mean to make you talk about something so personal. I was...well, just worried about you, that's all. I didn't mean to pry.”

Nick’s chest tightened, that strange  _ something _ that had surfaced a couple months ago blooming further. “No harm done. I don't mind you asking. Not really.” He shrugged. “To be honest, you're the first person to ask, let alone notice.”

Nora looked at him again, brow scrunched. “Not even Ellie?”

Nick shook his head. “Never came up. Personally, I don't think she knows how to ask.”

“Maybe.” Nora was quiet a moment, before making a noise that sounded like a strangled chuckle. “Or maybe she know you don't want to talk about it.” Her arms slipped further down her legs, and her voice grew faint. “You can be a stubborn son of a bitch…”

Nick looked at her in askance. “Nora?” he said quietly. He reached out, lightly touched her shoulder. She didn't respond, his only answer her slow, labored breaths. He relaxed, his initial flash of fear fading away as he realized she was asleep.

He pick up the half-drunk mug of tea and set it on the rickety table at her bedside. Nick dithered for a moment about what to do with her. He didn't want to wake her, but damned if he was going to leave her on the cold floor. After a few moments, he got over himself and carefully slid his arms under her knees and behind her back, lifting her so he could lay her on the bed. She stirred as his duster fell away from her shoulders, but she didn't wake, and Nick breathed out a sigh of relief. With a bit of maneuvering, he got her on the bed without too much of a hassle. He tucked the covers over her, brushing one of her sweat-damp curls away from her face.

Even pale and sweaty and sick, she was beautiful. Nick imagined he felt his heart twist as he watched her. Whatever else he was, he knew right then that he was a damn fool. She could never love him, not in the way he wanted. He stood over her a few moments more, watching her shift beneath the covers. He wanted to memorize the arch and furrow of her brow, the curve of her lips, the smooth line of her jaw, every aspect that made her  _ Nora _ . Nick knew all too well by now the fleeting nature of people's lives. When she was gone - by God, the world would be all the poorer for it - he didn't want to forget her, to lose her face and voice and manner to the fadings of time.

Eventually, he tore himself away, retrieving his duster from the floor and making his way back to the couch. He curled up on it, the old thing creaking nearly as much as he did under the weight of his metal frame. The ache across his back began to ease, and he let himself relax as he watched Nora sleep. Her breaths were long and made wet, smacking sounds in her throat. It was painful to hear; but her breathing was steady, and that was enough of a comfort. Nick began to drift off, her breaths the echoes of his aching heart.

 

* * *

 

Nick woke before her, the calm and quiet of the early morning seeping in until he opened his eyes. The room was unusually dark, as if the night still hadn't fully faded away. Nick slipped off the couch, pulling his duster over his shoulders and making his way across the room to check on Nora. 

She barely stirred, when he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She was still running a fever, all right. Nick reached out to the Pip-Boy on her table, tapping a button to bring the screen to life. It was just past six in the morning; curious, considering how little light there was. Nick frowned at the door suspiciously, and he began walking towards it. It was too quiet to be storming, but maybe-

Nick hauled the door open, only to find his fears confirmed. Instead of the sight of early morning Sanctuary, Nick was faced with a wall of snow. It wasn't the first time this had happened to Nick, but he was rather surprised by it. He knew it had been snowing last night. However, snowing was one thing; this was something else. He and Nora must have slept through a full on blizzard.

Resigned, Nick closed the door. It seemed they wouldn't be leaving the house today, unless he decided to dig them out. He passed the curtain partition and glanced over at Nora's slumbering form, still beneath the heap of blankets. Worry stirred in his chest. It wasn't as if either of them really had plans to go anywhere; Nora’s illness was taking care of that.

Nick wandered back to the couch, tossing his duster down and sitting beside it. He was motionless for a moment, forearms resting on his knees with his hands clasped, staring at Nora. He was at a loss, frankly. Without Nora to talk to, or just putter around and do things, he felt...useless.

It was a strange feeling for Nick these days. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. Not since Jenny, not since he'd been thrown out into the Commonwealth like a piece of garbage. He had made sure over the years that he would try his damndest to do something if he ever felt like this again. And he'd done well with that resolution. Every bit of stability he had in this life, he'd fought for. It was disorienting, knowing now that he could do next to nothing to cure this feeling, to help Nora get over this.

Nick abruptly realized he'd been staring off into space for close to ten minutes. He shook himself out of it, almost scrambling to his feet. Damned if he was going to sit around feeling sorry for himself. Maybe he couldn't cure Nora outright, but he didn't have to sit on his hands.

He started exploring the tiny kitchen, trying to make sense of Nora’s organizational system while drudging up memories of pre-war Nick’s cooking. It had been so long since he'd had to pay attention to this sort of thing. Ellie cooked at the office sometimes, on the rare occasion they were overloaded with cases, but it wasn't the kind of skill he could pick up through osmosis. If they were in Diamond City, he could just pick up a bowl of noodles and be done with it. Nick looked around, almost despairing for a moment. The joys of rural living, indeed.

 

* * *

 

Several hours and much mumbled cursing later, Nick had succeeded in setting a pot of soup to simmer on the stove. It bubbled away cheerfully as he watched it from his seat at the table. He took another drag from his cigarette, enjoying the feeling of the smoke in his mouth, throat, his artificial lungs. It made him feel more alive, not so much like a hulk of metal. Although, he was running pretty low now. He figured, with some distaste, that he’d have to start cutting back if he wanted his stash to last the rest of the winter. 

He sat, still and silent, eyes on the whorls and patterns of the smoke as it rose and dissipated, waiting for Nora to wake up. Nick was a little surprised that his fumbling in the kitchen hadn't woken her. It had taken some time, but he had eventually dug up enough memories to puzzle out a soup. It was hard, sifting through the original Nick’s memories, like pawing through someone else’s unmentionables drawer without invitation. Almost as difficult had been trying to piece together a working soup out of sensations that were already hazy with time. People didn't usually remember recipes word for word; not even Nick, with his razor-sharp recall.

He had loved cooking, did it more by feeling than with thought. Probably wasn't all that good at it, but he loved it all the same. It was relaxing, smelled good, and you could share the results with friends. And while he wasn't the busy bee of social circles, he had always had friends. And Jenny.

Mostly Jenny.

Nick shook his head, tearing himself out of memories that weren’t his. He took another long pull, then sighed, stubbing out the cigarette remains in the battered ashtray on the table. The chill of the room lingered on his bare forearms, his shirtsleeves still rolled up from cooking, but it didn't really bother him. The cool air felt kind of nice, even as it settled into his joints. Across from him, the soup continued to simmer peacefully. Damned if he knew how it would taste, but for Nora’s sake, he hopes it would at least  be palatable.

Eventually, he pushed himself out of his seat, chair scraping against the worn floor. He made his way over to the bedroom area, skirting the curtains that partitioned the room. Nora had stirred once or twice during the past few hours, but had settled into silence before he could check on her. Nick almost thought she was sleeping still; he had already turned away before he was stopped by a low, hoarse voice calling his name. He came back, knelt at her bed so she wouldn't have to raise her voice. “Hey,” he said gently. “How're you doing?”

Her eyes were barely opened, and what he could see if them was glassy and bloodshot. “Not well,” she mumbled, the words vague and almost lost in her sleep-thick voice. Nick pressed the back of his good hand to her forehead as she spoke, trying to gauge her temperature. “Don't want to move,” she continued, in that same rough voice. She blinked slowly, and added, “Everything hurts.”

Nick pulled his hand away, bringing out a faint smile for her despite his worry. Her skin was hot to the touch, and her tone was faint, as if she could barely summon the energy to speak. He tried to think of something, anything to say. “Guess we’re peas in a pod, then?”

She smiled back at that, the barest curve of flushed lips and cheek, but didn't respond. Nick pushed on. “Do you think you could eat something?” Nora made a face, brows furrowing into an almost-scowl; but she nodded too, the movement small. He reached out, hesitant, lightly rested his fingertips on her shoulder for a moment. “I'll be back in few, ok?” She mumbled some sort of acknowledgement as he pushed to his feet, but he couldn't catch the words.

Nick ignored the soup for a moment, a thought occurring to him as he went to the rickety table by the door instead. Piled on it were his and Nora’s packs, left undisturbed where they had dropped them after coming back from Abernathy’s farm. He unfastened hers, rooting around in it for a few seconds before he uncovered what he was looking for; a small packet of wrapped newspaper, the print yellow and faded, carefully cushioned by a folded scarf. Nick gingerly pulled it out, leaving Nora’s pack and taking the bundle over to the kitchen table. He quickly put on some water to boil; while he waited, he set about unwrapping the package, revealing bit by bit a broad leaf, still a vibrant crimson, even dried. With his good hand, he gently broke off a small piece, snaked through with orange-yellow veins, and crumbled it into Nora’s beaten old mug. He grabbed the tea tin he had left out last night, and added a hefty spoonful of the hubflower mix.

Satisfied, Nick went about transferring some soup into a bowl for Nora. He scrounged up a spoon from a box in the cupboard, added the hot water to the mug, and set everything on a battered vinyl tray, mildly proud of himself. He carried it all through to Nora, laying it down on the table next to her bed and nudging her Pip-Boy out of the way. She stirred at the clacking sound, eyes still bleary. Nick could tell she didn’t seem particularly interested in eating, but she started carefully pushing herself up anyway. He moved to help her, and she leaned into him with a quiet grumbling.

She didn’t make it very far with the soup, sliding it away unhappily after only a few minutes. But Nick pressed the tea into her hands, and she sat sipping at it wordlessly, short curls tucked behind her ears. She wasn’t staring at anything in particular, her eyes glazed as she brought the mug to her lips thoughtlessly. Something about that look prickled at him, set off the tiniest whisper of half-remembered panic deep within. Nick pushed it away and let her be, moving over to his couch and picking up a book from the floor; one of the books they’d been reading together, a dusty tome on criminal law in the old Commonwealth, the Boston-that-was. It didn’t quite feel the same, reading it without her, but the way Nora looked right now,he doubted she’d be interested in listening. And it was something to occupy him, at least.

An hour or two passed like that, Nick paging through the book at a much slower pace than he usually read, the material seeming particularly dry today. Nora had long since finished off the tea and curled under her covers to sleep. She had lain like that for several hours now, her breaths shallow and rasping. He got up to take the stove’s warmer, setting it to cool before her moved it to the icebox. He cleaned up the counter, refilled the kettle, and quickly, all too quickly, ran out of things to do. Nick ended up sitting at the table, feeling utterly useless.

He had spent so much time around Nora, he thought bitterly, that he’s started to forget about the fundamental differences between them. It was an ugly reminder, this, a slap in the face. They would never be the same, never be equal. She looked so fragile, buried beneath her covers, so incongruous with the Nora he was used to, without the strength and vitality that seemed to define her. And that was it, the part that really got to him. Barring an explosion, or something equally destructive, Nick knew he would continue to go on as he had, stubborn as you please. But Nora, in all her flawed humanness, would eventually go, as so many others Nick had known had before her. Whether it was to sickness, or raiders, or - God forbid - old age, she would eventually die and leave him, go someplace he couldn’t follow. He hated thinking of it, hated the thought of her death so bitterly it made something twist inside his chest, taut with rage at the unfairness of this cruel world.

Nick had to wrench himself from that train of thought, so abruptly dark. Nora would be fine, he reassured himself. With rest and treatment, fevers righted themselves. Unbidden, his memory presented the image of those brahmin, fevered and on death’s door. He forcibly pushed the picture away, out of his mind’s eye. Nora was stronger than that; and besides, this was likely just a cold. Nick got up in search of his duster, the cold finally getting to him. This was nothing, and Nora would be fine.

 

* * *

 

A wild storm hit during the small hours of the next morning, hissing and moaning as it railed against the house with an unbridled ferocity; and when Nick checked outside, the majority of the snow had been stripped away. He made sure Nora was soundly sleeping, before grabbing his hat and coat and crossing the street.

Preston opened his door on the second knock, rubbing at his eyes. It was still pretty early, Nick realised belatedly; given the circumstances, however, he didn’t really have it in him to be apologetic. He accepted Preston’s yawned invitation and crossed the threshold, shutting the door on the cold breeze as quickly as possible.

Nick spoke without preamble as Preston padded over to his stove, doubtlessly getting a start on his breakfast. “Nora’s sick,” he said, and watched the blood drain from Preston’s face.

“What?” His face made plain every worry, fear, and doubt that Nick had been trying to keep tamped down. “How -” he cut himself off before he’d barely started, looking away and setting the pan in his hand down. “It’s that damn cough, isn’t it?”

Nick felt a prickle of irritation run through him, an irrational annoyance that Garvey had noticed the cough, worried about it, long before it had even occurred to him that it might be worse than she was letting on. “Yeah,” Nick admitted, pushing the feeling away with a twinge of shame. “Woke up sick and coughing her lungs out the other night; hasn’t been able to keep anything down since.” He spread his hands, such as they were, a little helpless.”I’m good at a lot of things, but I have to admit, I’m a little out of my wheelhouse with this one.”

Preston scrubbed at the back of his head, a faint smile flickering in his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

Nick crossed his arms, returning the humor out of sheer reflex. “Well, not being sick for almost two centuries makes  it difficult to empathise.”

Preston acknowledged that with a snort, and began collecting his things. “I guess with the General, this sort of thing was bound to happen sooner rather than later. She pushes herself way past her limits, and in this kind of weather, that never leads to anything good.” Under the concern, Nick thought he sensed a flicker of admiration in Preston’s tone. He sat down to tug on his boots, tired fingers slipping on the buckles. “Let’s head over to Marcy’s. If anyone knows what to do, it’ll be her.”

Nick eyed him like he’d lost his mind. “That witch? She’s more likely to smother Nora than help her. God only knows what kind of bedside manner that woman has.”

A chuckle escaped Preston, eyes crinkling even as he obviously tried to fight it down. “I’ll admit, she’s hardly the gentlest.” The brief grin faded away as he continued. “But she’s a damn fine herbalist, best I know. She’ll know what’s good.”

“Alright,” Nick acquiesced. He watched Preston wrap himself in vest, coat, and scarf with  quick, practiced movements. “I trust you; if you say Marcy’s our best bet, I believe you.”

Preston paused for a moment as he donned his hat, fingers lingering on the brim as his eyes grew serious, flicking to the exposed metal of Nick’s throat. They knew each other’s measure, he and the minuteman, had taken it years ago when their paths had first crossed. A vivid memory of choking smoke and blazing fire in the night rose up, unbidden, and Nick shoved it away, almost reflexively. He shifted his weight in mild discomfort, knowing that Preston was remembering the same thing. “Ready to go?” he said gruffly, then tried to soften it with a smirk. “What were you waiting for, a written invitation?”

Garvey seemed to shake himself out of his sudden mood, shrugging it off. “With Marcy? At this hour? We may need one.”

 

* * *

 

Marcy was predictably irritated when she answered the door. Her respect for Preston apparently didn’t extend to exclusion from her ill humour. She eyed him furiously, Nick even more so, then demanded, “Well? What is it? I know you’re not dropping by for a cup of tea, so what do you want?”

“Good morning to you too, Marcy,” Nick grumbled. “Mind if we come in?”

“I do, actually,” she said, adding, “ _ Synth, _ ” in what presumably was the most insulting tone she could muster.

Preston sighed. “Marcy,” he entreated. “We need you help.” He paused, gauging her stony expression and obviously not sure how much weight the plea carried with her. “Please?”

Marcy tossed her head, silky black swinging with the movement. “Of course you do,” she said, her attitude imperious and disparaging. “Fine, ok. You can come in. And you too, synth.” She ushered them in, snapping the door shut. “But don’t get any ideas, you hear me?”

Nick did his best to ignore her comments, letting them roll off as he always did while he took in her house. Preston certainly hadn’t been leading him on; Marcy had practically turned her and Jun’s home into a greenhouse. Plants in their little clay pots littered the available surfaces, set on windowsills, soaking up the hazy light that filtered through the thick glass, and in a couple places, hanging from chains hooked to the ceiling. Despite the persistent chill in the air, it made the snow outside seem rather far away.

Nick caught Marcy watching him suspiciously as he looked around, but thankfully, she chose not to say anything, addressing Preston instead. “So? What is it that you’re interrupting my morning for?”

Preston, to his credit, seemed to be impervious to her endless barbs. “Nora’s come down with something. We wanted to see if you had anything to help.”

Marcy crossed her arms, her scowl somehow deepening and yet becoming triumphant. “I see. Your precious General catches a cold and you both come running to me to play doctor?” She snorted, tossing her head again with that imperious flick. “All the talking behind my back, forgotten? Suddenly nasty Marcy is useful!”

A slow tide of guilt rose in Nick; a quick glance at Preston confirmed he was feeling similarly. But whatever the man’s emotions, he kept his voice level. Come on, Marcy. You know that’s not true.” He gestured at the greenery all around them. “You almost single handedly put together our winter stores. Nobody thinks you’re useless.”

She looked a little mollified at that, but her scowl remained. “Oh, really? So I’m useful, but not worth any recognition? I’m supposed to take the praise and jump at your every beck and call? You may think I’m a bitch, Garvey, but I’m not your dog.” She looked like she was going to say more, working herself into a frothing fury; but before she could continue, a quiet voice cut her off.

“Marcy, stop it.” The voice, in a familiar dejected tone, came from Jun. Nick started when he spoke. He hadn’t seen the man  at all when he came in, he’d been so still. Marcy turned around, the glare remaining, but finally silenced. Jun pulled his sweater closer around his lean frame, looking uncomfortable with all the attention suddenly directed towards him. “Just help them, Marcy.”

Marcy sputtered like water overflowing onto a blazing fire. “How can you say that? After all the disrespect that woman has given me?”

Jun barely moved, just shrugged with one shoulder as he met his wife’s gaze. “She’s always been kind to me. And...she understands.”

Whatever that meant, it seemed to quell Marcy’s outrage. Jun continued in the silence. “Just help her, Marcy. Please.”

There was quiet for a moment, before Marcy sighed dramatically. “Fine!” she said, turning back to Nick and Preston with a renewed glare. “What’s wrong with her?”

Nick’s astonishment with Marcy’s sudden reversal mingled with a sweep of acute relief as he quickly sorted through Nora’s symptoms. “She’s had a pretty nasty cough for the last couple of weeks that’s only been getting worse. Since the other night, she’s been sick to her stomach and hasn’t been able to keep anything down. And she’s running a pretty high fever.”

Marcy wrinkled her nose, face scrunching in annoyance. “Sounds like White Fever.” She shook her head. “But usually people start coughing up blood before the fever hits.” She abruptly refocused a steely gaze on Nick. “How about it, metal man? You live with her; have you seen anything like that?”

Nick lifted his shoulders helplessly. “Honestly, I have no idea.” Preston raised an eyebrow in a sidelong glance, and Nick kept going, feeling a bit defensive. “Nora’s not really the type of gal to let on when she’s feeling under the weather. If there was any blood, she’s been hiding it from me. Hell, until the other night, she kept insisting that it was just an irritated throat.”

Marcy snorted at that, but thankfully didn’t comment. “Fine. Have you given her anything?”

Nick slipped his hands into his pockets, feeling suspiciously like he was on the wrong end of an interrogation. “Vegetable soup, to get something in her. And hubflower tea with bloodleaf.”

She sniffed disdainfully. “Well, at least you’re not doing anything wrong.” MArcy stalked over to the window with the most pots, grabbing a small satchel and a knife from the nearby tabletop. “I don’t have any bloodleaf, but it's not much use against White Fever anyway. Keeps the fever down sometimes, and not much else.” She began cutting the leaves from several different plants. “Get back to that woman. I don’t want to feel responsible for her death because you two fools left her alone for too long.”

Nick glanced at Preston, who half-smiled and nodded his head towards the door. “Go on ahead,” Garvey muttered. “I’ll make sure she gets over there.” He clapped Nick lightly on the shoulder and walked away, raising his voice to ask Marcy what he could help with.

Snow had started falling, the light flakes drifting and swirling on the gentle breeze. Nick paced through the slowly piling snow to Nora’s house, the faded blue still showing in patches through the wood and metal additions that filled in the walls. He tugged the door open, feeling the familiar catch as it stuck for a long moment. He closed it on the frigid air and slipped off his hat and duster, laying them on a kitchen chair as he made his way around the curtains.

Nora was much as he had left her, curled in on herself, tangled hair spread over her worn pillow. Her skin still burned at the touch, and on closer inspection, she remained sweaty, stray curls sticking to her forehead and temples. Nick listened to her strained breaths for a moment, before kneeling by the bed and gently shaking Nora awake.

Her eyes were bleary, unfocused as they searched for something to light on. “Is that you?” she mumbled, something lurking in her tone that Nick couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah, Nora, it’s me,” he replied. “Didn’t want to wake you, but Preston will be over with Marcy in a few minutes.”

Her eyelids dropped shut, as if out of their own accord, brow furrowing faintly. “Why would they come here?”

The sluggish sentence was punctuated by a weak, painful sounding cough. And suddenly, there it was. A small spattering of poppy red to adorn the edge of Nora’s sleeve where she had coughed into it. It drew Nick’s gaze like a lodestone, taunting him with that baleful color. There was more discoloration there, a stain of rust in the background. Old blood, from coughs smothered by that sleeve. Nick remembered more than felt the sensation of his stomach dropping, a chill creeping over him that had nothing to do with the freezing temperatures outside. “Nora?” he ventured; she responded with a soft noise. “How long had your cough been like this?” She made another sound, questioning, and opened her glassy eyes again. Nick gripped her forearm, turning it so she had a good view of her sleeve. “The  _ blood _ , Nora.” His voice was more urgent now; she heard it too, he could tell as she struggled to properly wake up. “How long have you been coughing blood?”

“I don’t -” Nora coughed again, and Nick released her arm so she could smother it. “I don’t know,” she continued, clearing her throat. “A few days?” Her eyes slid closed one more. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine.”

Nick sat back on his heels, the dread that had been hanging around him the past couple of days finally coalescing, sinking its claws deep into him. “This is bad, Nora,” he finally croaked. His voice was becoming as unrecognizable as hers, dammit. She didn’t respond, though, save for a twitch of the eyes behind closed eyelids. She was out again, her body too exhausted from fighting the fever to stay awake.

Nick left her in peace, and began picking up their shared space. An old world notion, he supposed. Nobody much cared anymore if you had your filthy unmentionables hanging out to air. There were more important matters in life now, questions of survival that had to be met and answered day by day. All the same, he gathered up some of Nora’s things, tucking them into her battered steamer trunk without ceremony. He swept through the kitchen, mindlessly tidying up as he waited. And waited.

Without preamble, there was an impatient knock at the door. He started, climbing up from the couch. Across the room, Nora stirred fitfully, mumbling something unintelligible. Nick let the door alone for a minute, moving closer to her bed. “You alright, Nora?”

Her face scrunched up, as if annoyed. “...don’t want visitors.” Nick could have smiled at the near petulance in her tone as she continued. “Send them away.”

He brushed the back of his hand against her shoulder, trying to remember how to be comforting. “It’s just Marcy and Preston out there.”

Nora’s eyes opened, bloodshot through her lashes. “Can’t,” she muttered. “Kitchen’s in a state, and -” She broke off for a moment, that awful wet cough making a resurgence. “I’m not dressed, and Shaun is….Shaun….” She drifted off, the effort too much to continue. Her face relaxed, though still fraught with a troubled air.

Nick left her like that, perplexed at her sudden panic. He set it aside, opening the door - pull, catch, tug - to admit Marcy and Preston. The former glared at him with a sour expression. “And what took you so long, metal man? I nearly froze to death waiting for you!”

Preston hushed her, but the same question lingered in his eyes. Nick shrugged. “Sorry. Nora was….” He trailed off, feeling his brow furrowing. “It’s probably nothing.”

Marcy huffed indignantly to herself as she set her satchel on the kitchen table. “Do you have water boiling?” she snapped at Nick.

“In the kettle, on the stove,” he replied, watching her draw small bundles from her bag and set them in neat rows.

She glanced at it fleetingly. “Looks like the synth has a lick of sense after all,” she muttered, obviously to herself. Nick shifted uncomfortably, annoyed at her constant needling, but there wasn’t much he could say to that.

Without invitation, Marcy marched around the curtain. Nick looked to Preston, who shrugged in resignation, before following her. He found Marcy crouched next to the low bed, the back of her hand against Nora’s forehead. She shook her head at what she felt, moving on to Nora’s pulse. Nick stood behind her, silently, until she said, without even looking, “Go sit on that couch and stop hovering. It won’t help her get better any faster.”

Nick retreated to the couch as directed, abashed. As he sat, he addressed Marcy. “Just so you know, I think she  _ has _ been coughing up blood, at least for a couple days now.” Marcy glanced sharply at him, and he gestured towards Nora. “There’s some on her sleeve, if you want to see.” She did check, lifting Nora’s limp forearm and turning it over to look more gently than he would have credited her. All it elicited was a small grunt of acknowledgement, and Marcy continued with her examination. Nick settled back into the couch, unease congealing within him, and let her work in peace.

After a few minutes of this, Marcy tugged a small notebook from her jacket pocket, leafing through worn pages with a purpose. Nick tried inconspicuously craning his neck around so he could see what was in it, and was met with limited success. He could see most of the page, but it was covered in strange symbols made of circles and lines. Pre-war, the original Nick whispered from the corners of his mind. Korean, unless he missed his guess. As the threats of espionage grew, the police had been trained to recognize different systems of writing, in the event they stumbled across communist spies in their investigations.

Marcy shifted, and Nick glimpsed a drawing of a leaf, familiar in shape, sketched with a painstaking hand. A medicinal journal, then, or something along those lines. The leaf disappeared as Marcy turned the page once, then again, obviously looking for something. She continued thumbing through those pages, covered top to bottom in lines and circles that meant nothing  to Nick.

Eventually, she snapped the book shut, turning to Preston, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s White Fever, all right,” Marcy groused. “She’s far too pale, coughing up blood, and I think the fever’s too high to be something common.” She pushed herself up, brushing at her pantlegs. “And besides, any harmless fever would’ve begun to pass on by now.”

Preston unfolded his arms, a frown clouding his face. “So what do we do?”

Marcy crossed the room to the table, unwrapping several of the bundles she had laid out. “Well, we need something stronger than bloodleaf, that’s for sure,” she snapped. “Julia might have some ash flower. I can mix that with hubflower and see if that gets us anywhere.” She began dropping an assortment of leaves and petals into a nearby mug, crushing them with her hands as she did. “Until then, give her this tea.” She poured hot water from the kettle into the mug and pushed the concoction across the table. “It’s got hubflower, melon blossoms, and some wild aster in it, so it should help. Pour it down her throat if you have to.” With that, Marcy marched out of the door, nearly slamming it shut behind her.

Preston let out a grim chuckle and walked over to the table to inspect Marcy’s handiwork, as Nick climbed to his feet to join him. “Well, it doesn’t  _ smell _ poisonous,” Garvey joked, sniffing at it. “Probably best to let it steep for a few minutes before giving it to her.” He headed for the door. “I’m going to go after her, see if I can keep her from ripping off any heads.”

Nick let himself grin at the picture. “Good idea.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, watching as Preston gathered up his hat and scarf. “Just….get back soon, alright?” he ventured. Preston paused, hand on the door knob, and Nick suddenly remembered the long left behind awkwardness of properly asking for help. He hadn’t needed to in so long, he had almost forgotten the words. “I’m….” He trailed off, the words stuck in his throat; when he couldn’t get them out, he tried a different way, rubbing at the back of his neck as he said, “It’s just - It’s been a long time since I was human.”

He winced at that internally, but Preston didn’t seem bothered. His face softened into an expression of understanding, and he gave him a firm nod. “Don’t worry Nick. The General is a strong woman.” He glanced at the curtain, then back to Nick. “She’s been through a lot, probably more than you or I know. She’ll get through this too.”

Nick watched him leave, snapping the door shut behind himself smartly, and wondered if Preston really believed that.


	2. Chapter 2

There was mist on the ground, the beginnings of a low-lying fog that would soon envelop the city. It came rolling in off of the harbour, creeping in through the rivers and canals, spilling over into the streets. With the fog came an unseasonable chill, mid-July heat giving way as dusk tightened its grip on the sky.

The mist made the abandoned street dreamlike. The streetlamps had just come on, mixing with the very last bit of evening light, creating a sort of haze that shifted, almost blurring reality. Nick stood in the midst of it, cool wet air seeping through his suit to brush against his skin, lying on it like a film of sweat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t seem to think, except about the encroaching mist. Maybe it would rain later, a soft drizzle to sweep the streets, washing the dirt and heat of the day into the river. It’s calming to think of that, of the city being renewed overnight. His heart beats a wild tattoo against his ribs, pounding and stealing his breath with its ferocity. Maybe if he looks away, the coming rain will erase this moment, wipe the slate clean. Maybe if he walks away, this will have never happened. He wants to leave, God, how he wants to - but his eyes are fixed, and without conscious thought, Nick began to shuffle forward, walking down the street towards the tableaux left for him.

He wishes he were more unsteady, his stride more hesitant. But it's as it always is, firm and easy, and it brings him there far too quickly. He isn't ready, he could never be ready, not for this, but it's too late.

It was her, of course. It was always her, even as his mind scrambled to tell him otherwise. It was the hair he saw first, as he fell to his knees, almost carefully. Her cherry-blonde hair spilled silky over her shoulders, the soft rolls escaped from their pins. The bright white of the streetlamp overhead illuminated the stray hairs that had caught on the splintery billboard post she leaned against. The mist curled around it, around _her_. Nature was already taking back it’s own, the cool air settling over her like a shroud, dew forming on her pale skin.

The chill caught in his nostrils, the smell of the river heavy, water and stone bridges and the faint, lingering traces of fish from the harbour. His hand was reaching out, brushing a familiar pattern over her cheekbones, past glazed, unseeing eyes. They pointed to the ground beside her, but she always looked up, out, to the sky and the far horizon. There was something wrong with that, Nick thought, something terribly, terribly wrong, and his hands began to shake. Jenny - _his_ Jenny, his sweet and laughing Jenny - somehow wasn’t behind those eyes anymore.

There was something dark and sticky pooling at his knees. It clung to his questioning fingers, crimson glistening in the light when he brought his hand up to see. Some faraway part of his mind recognised it even as he stared absently. He was still shaking, the tremors settling in his hands and across his shoulders, tightening in his gut. There was a hot stinging in his eyes, and the scene before him began to blur. Nick wanted to scream - needed to scream, to sob, to beat at the ground, curse the universe, gather her up in his arms. But all he could do was shake, like a leaf buffeted by autumn winds, just on the edge of falling into an abyss. He was drowning, the mist filtering into his lungs, coating them, suffocating him. He could only gasp, trying to draw breath past the raw twisting in his throat, the gripping pain that squeezed his chest tighter and tighter in an iron grip.

A ringing in his ears was slowly drowning out the radio playing somewhere farther down the street. His blood pulsed in his veins, and he couldn’t look away from her, from the arms faintly spattered with tiny red specks, from the soft splay of her silk stockinged legs, from the slow burgundy bloom across the blue field of her dress.

Something deep inside of him was breaking. He could feel himself shattering like glass, the pieces falling out of reach. It finally started to rain - or he thought it did, salted water streaming down his face to patter on the blacktop. Jenny flickered then, so fast he almost missed it, like a TV with a bad signal. Then again. For the briefest of moments, short brown hair replaced Jenny’s, a nose that wasn’t quite right, eyes the wrong color. Something shifted, changed. The light grew too bright, piercing at his eyes. The ringing grew to a roar, deafening in its intensity. His heart was racing too fast, it felt on the verge of bursting 

Nick scrambled up, away, stumbling as he did and falling back to the asphalt. His hand suddenly burned, and he pushed himself up, inspecting it. Blood welled on his skinned palm, and there was something wrong with that as well. The color was off, unnatural, too vivid; as he watched, it darkened to an oozing blue-black. A panic was rising in his chest. He looked up to find that the fog had settled thickly all around him, obscuring everything from view. He clutched his wounded hand to his chest, backing away blindy. The cold stuck in his lungs, stole his breath. He tripped, fell again to the ground, but the pain was wrong too. It seared through him, _inside_ , bones and nerves calling out desperately. He struggled, but something was weighing on him, gravity inexorable in its pull. His eyes squeezed shut, willing the panic away and failing. He was alone, he was alone, he was -

* * *

Nick started awake, greeted by the now familiar sight of a dilapidated ceiling, run through with wood and steel supports. His iron lungs struggled for breath, his chest heaving. There was something different about the view, though. Under his shoulders, the ground was unyielding, cold-

The ground. Of course. Nick rolled over, pushing himself up in spite of his aching joints. He kicked off the blanket from where it had tangled around his legs, and pulled himself back onto the couch. He sat still for a moment, trying to slow the desperate breaths. He was partially successful. There was a faint tremor in his limbs, a holdover from the dream.

More like a nightmare, Nick rued inwardly. It stung in his mind, sharp as cut glass. There was a bitter helplessness, an inevitability to the act of trying to push the vision away. He knew it for what it was; he’d seen it far too many times, re-lived that awful memory over and over again throughout the years. Even with the old Nick’s bitingly clear recall, that double edged knife that so often slipped, memories faded with time. Dust gathered, painful moments lost some of their barb. But not this one. Never this one.

He could see her again in his mind’s eye, spread out on the inky pavement, propped up against that billboard post like a broken doll. Nick felt like retching, like screaming until he couldn’t anymore. Instead, he tightened his fists and stared at the floor, two hundred year old varnished wood grinning back at him. It felt different than it had in the dream, it always did. Blood didn’t pound through him, his eyes couldn’t blur with tears, his artificial muscles and tendons ached with a different kind of strain. In a way, that was almost worse, worse than reliving the unutterable pain of Jenny’s death. Remembering what it was like to be human, feeling it with such intensity - he couldn’t stand it. Nick liked to think he was strong. He’d handled a lot since he’d woken up in the Commonwealth, and ended up only a little worse for wear. But this - this could break him; someday, it would, he knew it deep in his sorry excuse for a gut, down to his metal bones.

If he wasn’t broken already. There was a sad kind of finality to that thought. He looked up, running his hands over his battered face. Memories of another man's girl lying dead in the street haunted him, along with the terror that the woman before him wouldn't last the week. Nora was twisted into her blankets, limbs spread. The shoulder of her damp sweater had tugged down, revealing a glimpse of pale skin in the dim light. He could see the fever sweat from where he sat. She'd woken twice last night, barely making it to the bucket only to heave up blood spattered bile. Her cough was worse, and half the time, he couldn't hear anything she said. Not that she was saying much. If Preston wasn't vouching for her, Nick might’ve thought Marcy was poisoning Nora.

Yesterday, Marcy had come back looking grim. Well. Grimmer than usual. She'd spent an hour cutting and grinding herbs at the table while poring over her battered little book. Nick had had to resist pacing behind her, knowing it would only make Marcy livid and do little to speed her up. He'd settled for fiddling with his guns instead, trying to find solace in the simple machinery. It hadn't really worked, either in avoiding annoying Marcy overmuch, or in occupying his time. In the end, his revolver and shotgun were spotless, and Marcy's mood was more rotten than a Brahman carcass in mid-summer. She said little - especially to Nick- but from the way she had hovered expectantly around Nora's bed all day, he could guess that she wasn't doing as well as Marcy had hoped.

Nick was pulled from his thoughts by the gentle sound of shifting blankets. He looked up to find Nora finally awake, eyes squinted, even in the morning dimness. It took him a handful of seconds to cross over to her bed, hoping that the fever was finally letting up. That hope quickly dwindled as he pressed his good hand to her forehead and found it the same temperature it had been over the past couple of days. He let his hand slip down, trying to catch her gaze. Her vacant stare made it more difficult than it should have been, but he eventually succeeded. “Nora?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

She blinked, slowly, as if she couldn’t quite recognise the sound of her name. A furrow appeared in her brow, and she smothered a weak cough. Small flecks of blood painted the bedcloth when she pulled away. Her eyes seemed to take forever to focus on Nick’s face; when they did, glazed as they were, something brightened in them, turned up the corners of her mouth ever so slightly. Nora’s hand reached up weakly, as if she was going to cup his cheek. Her throat rasped with a painful sound when she spoke, her tone full of exhausted wonder. “Nate?”

If Nick had blood in his veins to run cold, it would have frozen. He was numb and motionless as she managed to brush the backs of her fingers over his battered cheekbones. Her hand fell back to the mattress to lie limp, and the beginnings of the smile that were already in place began to fit together, blooming into something fuller. She lay there, dried blood faintly flecking her pale lips, and smiled at him like he was gift-wrapped for Christmas Eve. Her voice cracked when she spoke again. “It’s really you…” she wandered off, suppressing another cough. “I ca-can’t believe you’re h-here."

“I - I’m not -” Nick floundered. His brain was running on overtime, trying desperately to find something, anything to say. “He’s not - Nate is gone, Nora.”

She blinked up at him again with bleary eyes. “Of c-course you were, you were on t-tour.” Her voice caught on the hard consonants, causing a slight stutter in her speech as she tried to form the words.

Nick winced. Something was wrong, and this wasn’t the kind of news he liked breaking to anybody. Without thinking, before his better sense could tell him not to, he said, “No, I...Christ, Nora, Nate is dead.” 

There was a slight shift in her expression, and her eyes quickly attained a wet gleam. Her response, however, wasn’t what Nick was expecting. “We thought you were for s-so long, and I -” She coughed, trying to smother it unsuccessfully. “But you’re b-back now.” Distantly, Nick heard the door scrape open and slam shut as Nora weakly brushed the top of his hand with her knuckles. “It’s ok, Nate,” she continued, her rasp barely a whisper. “You’re b-back home, you’re s-safe now.” 

A set of footsteps came to a stop behind Nick, and he tore his eyes away from Nora’s unseeing ones. Preston stood above him, Dogmeat at his heels, tugging his gloves off as his brow knit with worry. Nick didn’t know how much the man had heard; at this point, he didn’t care. He ignored Dogmeat, who came sniffing at Nick’s pockets for a treat and a scratch behind the ears, summoned as much urgency to his voice as he could muster and said, “Get Marcy. Now.”

* * *

“Well, shit.” 

Marcy perched on the chair drawn up next to Nora’s bed, arms crossed, fingers tapping impatiently. She wore a great big scowl smeared across her face, mouth twisted down so hard it made a thin line. “So what you’re telling me,” she continued, “is that she’s delirious?”

When Nick hesitated, she barked at him in a fair imitation of Dogmeat. “Well? Does she know where she is? What’s going on?”

“No,” Nick said shortly. He had to stop himself from spitting the answer out. Marcy’s prodding wasn’t doing any wonders for his natural sharpness. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was fighting a losing battle to bottle all of this up, contain his worry about what this meant.

Marcy, for her part, didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care. What a relief it must be, Nick thought wryly, to live without that constant pressure and stress, always agonising over what others shought of you. She had gone back to glaring at Nora, as if irritated that the woman didn’t have the good manners to die without troubling everyone else. But under her annoyance lurked something else. Perhaps, at the very least, it was sheer stubbornness. Marcy may be many things, But Nick knew she wasn’t the kind of woman to give up once she had gotten her teeth into something. It was written there on her face, in the set of her shoulders, plain as day. Then again, he considered, the thought bitter, maybe he was underestimating her venomous dislike of Nora.

After a few moments, however, Marcy wrapped up with her one-sided glaring contest and gave and irritable sigh. “I suppose it would be her that had to be difficult,” she said, her tone scornful. Nonetheless, she picked up her bag from where she had dropped it to examine Nora, and started rummaging through the contents. “ If I had realized how bad this was, I would have used this sooner.”  She withdrew her hand to reveal a small green glass bottle, stopped with cork and cupped in her palm.

Preston jumped at the obvious question before Nick could even form the words. “ What is it?”

Marcy grimaced, and it suddenly hit Nick that despite her spiky demeanor, she seemed genuinely reluctant to tell them what she was planning. No, not just that; if he didn't know better, he might have thought that Marcy was actually worried. That speculation did little to ease Nick as she answered Preston's question, her mouth set in an unhappy turn. “It’s fever blossom.” 

Preston made a startled noise, and Nick looked up sharply.” What?” He made to stand but suddenly Preston's hand was heavy on his shoulder, keeping him down. He fought to keep his voice calm and said, “You've had fever blossom all this time, and you haven't used any?”

Right on the heels of his questions followed one of Preston's own, in a voice more awed than anything. “Where did you even get that, Marcy?”

She set the bottle in her lap and continued rooting around in her bag, sparing a quick scowl for Nick has she started with Garvey's question. “Got it off and old trader that used to come through Quincy, years ago.” She sniffed, as if she was brushing the memory away. “Fool’s probably dead now. Thought it might come in handy someday. And as for you,” Marcy levelled her gaze at Nick. “That damn trader didn't know what he had, but he knew it was something good. I paid good caps for this, and I wasn't about to waste it when something else will do.”

Nick knew his brow was still pulled into a massive scowl, but he jerked his head in a nod. Whatever her reasons for holding back before, she was helping now, and he had to remind himself that starting a fight wouldn't do Nora any good. He felt Preston's firm hand slip from his shoulder, a tension he hadn't noticed was there easing from the air. Marcy finally found what she was looking for, and withdrew another small package, taped up in tattered yellow plastic. She set her bag on the floor and continued where she had left off. “Fever blossom is all well and good if you know how to use it properly, but it can only do so much. At this point, it needs something to boost it, which is what this is for.”  She gave the yellow packet a little shake as she got up, crossing over to the kitchen counter.

Nick shot Preston a questioning look, which the minuteman returned with a confused shrug. It was evident from the man’s voice that even his endless patience was wearing thin with her. “And what _is_ that, Marcy?”

She paused in the act of setting more water to boil to shoot the pair of them a look of extreme impatience, before apparently remembering that they didn't know the contents of her bag by heart. She huffed and said, “It's irradiated thistle.”

“Are you _trying_ to poison her?” Nick growled. He was half expecting Preston to quiet him, but the man seemed to be on his side in this.

“You're serious?” Preston couldn't keep the shock from his tone, even as Marcy crossed her arms over her chest, indignant. “The poor woman's not sick enough? You'd rather dose her with a spoonful of rads and be done with the whole affair?”

Something snapped in Marcy then. “That's what you think of me, isn't it?” Her words were harsh, sudden. “You think I hate everyone and everything so much that I'd poison a sick woman and pass it off as a cure?” She advanced towards Nick and Preston in an abrupt move, jabbing her finger at them as the fury rose in her voice. “I may not like her one bit, but she saved my husband’s life. She saved _my_ life.” Marcy paused, gathering up her next words like a fire consuming it's fuel. “And if- if my boy had still been alive, she would've saved him too.” She thrust her finge through the air again, sharp as a spear. “So _no_ . I don't like Wright. I don't like her _friends_ .” Marcy spat out the word while pointedly not looking at Nick. “But my husband and I owe her a life-debt, and _like_ doesn't enter into that.” Her hand dropped, curling into a first by her side. “You can think what you want of me. You can sit there and judge for all I care. But I'm going to help this fool of a woman get better; and if either of you try stopping me, I _will_ shoot you.” With that, she stomped back to the counter and began aggressively preparing a cup of tea.

Preston, as always, was the first to speak into the silence that followed. “I'm sorry, Marcy.” Her back and shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit, but she stayed quiet, facing the wall as she worked. Her movements slowed until she stopped completely, palms flat and white on the counter. “We asked you to help Nora, and all you've gotten in return is scorn and disbelief.” Out of the corner of his eye, Nick could see Preston was rubbing at his left hand; a nervous habit, perhaps? “We let our worry for the General cloud our common sense, and for that, I'm sorry.”

A distinct sense of guilt welled up in Nick, and he shifted in his seat, clearing his throat to speak. “I doubt you and I are ever going to get on. That's fine. But…..” He cleared his throat again, searching for the right words. “You've done a lot for Nora the past couple days. And for that, I'm grateful.” He looked down at his mismatched hands, wishing he could shove them in his pockets. “If you say this is the thing to do, then….” He paused, shook his head and sighed, the air rushing out. “Well then, I guess that's what we’re doing.”

There was silence for a long moment; then, with the rattle of a glass bottle, Marcy broke it. “The blossom should break her fever,” she said, resuming her work. “It's an antibiotic; fights infections, that sort of thing. The thistle works as a sedative in high doses, and it should help her breathe easier. I'll give her half a dose of Rad-Away with it, and she'll be fine.” She paused, letting tension ease up through the cracks and seams of the conversation. “Don't you ever ask for my help again. I'll give it freely, or not at all." 

Marcy’s knuckles were white as she said that, her tone unyielding. Though she hadn't specified who she was addressing, Nick knew it was aimed primarily at him.

“Understood, Marcy,” Nick said. “And thank you,” he added quietly. It felt like pulling teeth to say it, but it needed to come out. He watched her back tighten, muscles tensing and relaxing. She went back to work without responding. In a way, that was the best reply Nick thought he could have gotten.

Preston stood mute beside him, one hand still twisting at the other. His brow was furrowed, but his expression was somewhat harder to read. Was it shame that flickered there, or an angry helplessness that tightened at the corners of his eyes?

Nick looked away. The silence spread and festered like an open wound between the three of them. The cold stung in Nick’s metal bones, the wind outside a distant howling echo. Inside, there was only the stony grind of Marcy’s mortar and pestle to accompany his stormy thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo-boy. So it's come to my attention that I am one of *those* awful writers, who leaves you dear people in suspense for waaaayyy too long. And honestly, there are no excuses that could satisfy you lovely people out there. Saying life and work get in the way of my hobby only carries so much weight, and after a time it becomes a worn out, meaningless platitude. So instead, I will only offer my heartfelt apology, and with it, the knowledge that you and your comments are a large part of the reason I keep coming back to this dear baby of mine. Also know that I read each and every one of your comments, and that it means a great deal to me that you take the time to leave them. I'll be replying to some the the longer ones in the next couple of days, so don't despair. Keep on being amazing, and enjoy this little chapter - even if it is a poor repayment for your patience!


	3. Chapter 3

It was strange, sometimes, the secrets Nick uncovered without meaning to. 

Being a detective, both before and after the war, he had become somewhat used to unearthing the things people would rather remained buried. Affairs, political corruption, and later, the motives behind murder - they were all secrets that he had gone after with a dogged determination. The deeper it was buried, the more stead-fastedly he pursued it. Nick had always had an insatiable curiosity, a driving need to know  _ more _ . It had gotten him in trouble in school, at work, and it had eventually led to his ruin. No matter how well it had served him over the years, he often found himself wishing he could be rid of that need. What was it like, to live like everyone else, to not want to know  _ everything _ , to not see the delicate strands of the lies that held society together?

He liked to imagine it was relaxing, to not be driven under the constant lash of curiosity.

But then again, sometimes the secrets found him. And it never got easier, peering into someone else’s life like he did. Strangely enough, wanting to know something didn’t mean that the secret would ever be any lighter. Maybe like just called to like. He’d certainly gathered up his own hoard since being thrown out with the Institute’s garbage. The weight of them pressed into his shoulders, an invisible burden he didn’t know how to rid himself of.

Sometimes the secrets he found were huge, life-changing. Sometimes they were ugly things, truths that someone had hidden away, hoping they would never be found. And sometimes, they were the smallest things.

Nick stared listlessly at the book in his hands, curiosity warring passionately with his Old World sensibilities. The evening had been quiet enough. Preston had fallen asleep on the couch, Dogmeat by the lit stove, and Nick had stayed awake to watch over Nora. He’d smoked one of his precious few cigarettes, and then he’d pulled a large book from Nora’s steamer trunk - an old, thick thing, with a depressingly utilitarian binding and a pretentious title.  _ Welkynd and Hart: The Federal Courts and System, with Cases and Commentaries. _ It looked boring. And it was. He and Nora had tried taking turns reading it out loud a month ago, but had given up in despair. The authors had somehow managed to write about some of the most gripping and salacious cases of the 20th century in an impossibly dreary tone. Nora had laughed when he asked how she’d made it through the book for law school, and admitted, somewhat guiltily, that she’d skimmed quite a bit. It was hard to believe of the hard-working Nora, but the book was depressingly dull. They’d tossed it back into the trunk and picked up another. And that had been that.

The book was just as boring as Nick had remembered, the commentaries just as pedantic. He’d flipped through large portions without even glancing at the text, hoping to stumble across a hidden gem of something written in a manner remotely interesting. And that was when he found it. In the last hundred pages or so, buried in the bibliography, was a sketch. A carefully detailed and shaded building, done in charcoal, and taking up nearly an entire page.

What was more, Nick recognised it. The broad, temple-like facade of the downtown courthouse glared up at him with an alarming regularity, pillars and vaults looming in the sketch. He’d spent far too much time going through the offices and courtrooms that building held, desperately scavenging for support when Operation Winter’s End had met with failure and stonewalling. It brought back bitter memories.

The building was mostly gone, now. Half of the facade was destroyed, if he remembered, blown apart in some long-forgotten fight. And yet here it was, proud and monumental and whole, brought forth from the dead by Nora’s hand.

He had had no idea that Nora could draw. She hadn’t shown any interest in it since they’d started traveling together. He’d never seen her open up this book, or collect pencils, or do any of the things an artist might do. Yet, here was a drawing. That creeping urge to know more had crept up on Nick, needling him to continue. Without really considering it, he turned the page.

There were more drawings. Of course there were. Boston Commons, filled with food-stands and roughly drawn figures in the distance. A large, vaulted room filled with benches that he suspected was one of the terminals at the airport. The Old Corner Bookstore, with its door open and stands of tattered books set up on the street. And on the opposite page, the portrait of a handsome, uniformed man, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It wasn’t the secret of the drawings, really, that had stopped Nick in his tracks. It had more to do with what it said about Nora, this tiny truth that he had accidentally unearthed. Nick could only guess at the identity of the man, but there were really few people it could be. Only a fool would put money on it being anything other than her dead husband. In any case, it was obvious that an inordinate amount of time had been spent on it, moreso than the drawings next to it. There was a loving care that went into the details that spoke of long observation, a familiarity with the subject. The way the man’s eyes held the viewer’s gaze, the wayward strands of hair that fell to curl against his face. It was always the smallest things that hurt the most, that stung more than anything profound or life-altering could. They nestled into your heart and never left. And this….

Nick stopped himself before he could go any farther. With deliberate care, he turned back to the sketch of the courthouse. It felt far too much like prying to continue. Nora had opened up enough of her life to him in the search for her son. She deserved to have something untouched, even if she would never know he’d seen it. Even so, there was a nagging voice inside him, insisting he see what else she’d drawn.

He tried focusing on the sketch before him, in an attempt to satisfy the urge to keep looking. It was objectively good, of that he was sure. The lines were sure and neat, the shading realistic. She must do this often. Or she had, before….all of this. And somehow, she’d managed to capture the feeling of the building, of staring up at that massive monument to justice. It made him really wonder how much time she’d spent there. Enough, apparently, to be able to reproduce it from memory. It had occurred to Nick, of course, that she had perhaps crossed paths with the original Nick Valentine at some point. They had run in not dissimilar circles, after all. But for the first time, he seriously wondered if they had met before. If they had, would they even know it? He didn’t remember her, much as he wanted to, much as he wanted something that could tie that half-remembered life of before to this one. It was a desperate wish, a fruitless one. Linking their lives together wasn’t a panacea for their problems, he knew that. In his chest, a tight pain grew that had little to do with the cold. It couldn’t make her love him, either.

In the deep shadows by the pot-bellied stove, Dogmeat lifted his head, ears perking intently. The motion drew Nick’s attention from the old book in his hands and his distractedly bitter thoughts. The dog’s tail thumped once or twice, but other than that, he was still. Nick followed his line of sight to the apparently sleeping Nora, then glanced back at the dog. Dogmeat’s ears twitched, and he laid his snout back down on his paws, brow furrowed.

Unease rolled through Nick, although he couldn't say why. Maybe it was just too quiet. Maybe it was the dog’s worried expression that nagged at him. Maybe he was just growing paranoid in his old age. But he closed the book carefully and set it aside on the table.

The chair protested under Nick as he got up. The dark smudge of the blanketed Preston shifted on the couch. “Nick?” he muttered sleepily. “Something wrong?”

“Not sure,” Nick replied softly. He padded over to Nora’s bed, perching carefully on the edge. Behind him, there was a faint rustling of blankets, the gentle thump of feet hitting the floor. He ignored the approaching Preston as he checked on Nora.

Her breaths, while still shallow, had finally lost that awful wet rasp. Marcy’s methods seemed to be working after all. Her cheeks and chest remained flush with fever, however, and her skin shone with sweat in the dim light. Nick reached over to the nightstand, checking Nora’s Pip-Boy for the time. She was due for another cup of Marcy’s concoction in an hour or so.

Nick settled back, hands clasped in his lap as he watched her. Preston stopped a couple feet away, clutching his loose jacket close to his chest. “How’s she doing?” he murmured.

Nick grunted, not wanting to give his concerns life by saying them aloud. “Better. I think.” He shifted, settling into a better position on the bed. “I guess Marcy really does know her trade.”

“Seems so.” Preston sighed, then frowned at Nick. “All the same, you’re worried about something.” When Nick didn’t answer, he crossed his arms properly, set his feet. “C’mon, Valentine, spit it out. What’s bothering you?”

Nick glared at the man for a moment before relenting, a sliver of resentment whispering through him. Sure, maybe it was petty. At least it was satisfying. And he’d never claimed to be perfect. “I don’t know, Garvey,” he growled. “It’s just a feeling, is all.”

“What kind of feeling?”

Nick shrugged, exasperated. “That something’s wrong. I couldn’t tell you any more than that.”

Preston was quiet for a moment. The fire in the stove popped and crackled contentedly as if there was nothing to fear in the world. The winds outside were building to a steady howl. Nick watched, unmoving, as Preston pulled up the wooden chair nearby, legs scraping lightly against the floor. He sat, wood creaking under him, his face shrouded in shadow. “This feeling,” he started, hesitant. “Does this have something to do with whatever’s going on between you and the General?”

Nick could practically hear his heart stutter and grind to a halt at the question. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

“And?” Nick kept his eyes on Nora, determined. “Wouldn’t be your business anyway. So why’re you asking?”

“Because I think it is.”

Nick shook his head. “Step off, Preston. There’s nothing to find here.”

“Oh really?” Preston’s voice hardened, and in the corner of his vision, Nick could see him leaning forward. “I think there is, Nick, and I need to know  _ what  _ it is.”

_ Yeah, you and me both, pal.  _ Nick’s eyes flicked up, met a gaze of iron-bound oak in return. He held it a long few moments, before rasping, “Watch it, Garvey. You’re walking a fine line here.”

Preston didn’t waver, of course - Nick hadn’t really expected him to. Wasn’t really in the man’s nature. But Nick thought he saw a flash of - what, startled triumph?

He kicked himself mentally. Of course Preston didn’t know anything, how could he? He was just guessing, and Nick had gone and confirmed whatever theory he’d put together. A hot sliver of anger coiled in his chest, the old hatred of being outfoxed bringing up bitter memories.

Preston shifted finally, working his jaw like he was chewing over his words. “Guess I am. And as a rule, I don’t like sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.” He eyed Nick cautiously. “If you say whatever’s going on between you two is private, then that’s fine. I’ll stay out of it.” His eyes hardened along with his voice, mouth set in a firm line. “But if something affects the General, it  _ becomes _ my business.”

Nick’s hackles slowly lowered as he realized what the man was trying to say. The defensiveness lingered, but he could feel himself cooling off from the irrational anger that had washed over him. He nodded, glancing back to the recumbent Nora. “That, I can understand.”

Preston idly rubbed at his left hand. “Look, Nick, I’m not trying to be an ass.  I just….I don’t know; I want to be able to help, if I can.”

Insight began to bloom for Nick as he began to piece together what Garvey  _ wasn’t  _ saying as well. He was scared. And it went deeper than the uncertainty of wondering if your superior and her friend were bickering. Watching a movement you had grown up with, believed in - loved, even - tear itself apart from the inside out was bound to have consequences. Hell, seeing the Minutemen crumble had shaken nearly everyone in the Commonwealth, let alone those who’d been a part of it. As far as Nick knew, Preston had been right in the thick of it too, posted at Quincy when everything fell apart. He’d been left to watch as the group fractured beyond recognition, first through infighting, then through betrayal. It must have been agonising. And now he feared that the same thing was about to happen, here and now, before the the reborn Minutemen could even get up off the ground.

“Wright and I aren’t fighting, Garvey,” Nick rasped, “if that’s what you’re so damn worried about.”  As difficult as it was to say aloud, it felt perversely good to be able to get that off his chest. He brushed his thumb against his jaw, considering his words as Preston looked up in mild surprise. “We - well, we had a disagreement,” he said shortly. “But it’s fine -  _ we’re  _ fine.”

“Oh,” Preston said. An air of definite relief exuded from the man. “Well then.” He sat back in the chair a bit. “I didn’t think you were fighting, per se,” he admitted. “Things just seemed….strange between the two of you.”

Nick shook his head. “We got it sorted, I think.” He felt like he should say something more into the silence, and decided that a little more truth couldn’t hurt here. “And in any case, I’m not leaving her side until we find her son.”

Preston’s eyes softened. “Glad to hear it.” He re-crossed his arms, shivering. “It’s a tough case, trying to track down leads, what, ten years after the fact?”

“It is at that,” Nick agreed. “But I’ve had tougher, I think; maybe none this strange.”

Preston smiled faintly. “True enough.” The expression flicked away, replaced by a more thoughtful one. He paused, then asked, “Do you think she misses it?” On seeing Nick’s quizzical expression, he quickly added, “The Old World, I mean. The one that came before.”

Melancholy slithered through Nick, fully replacing the flash of anger from earlier. He felt tired, wrung out. He thought of the conversation on the crumbling riverbank months ago, just him and Nora. Two remnants of a world long dead. The way she had talked about her home, her husband, her child - it had been so wistful it hurt to listen. She was lonely. Of course she was. The world she knew had been wiped clean, and she’d had zero adjustment period.

“How could she not?” Nick asked in reply. “It was her entire life. Everything she was had become bound up in it. If the same happened to you in reverse, who would you be in that world? With nothing familiar to rely on? All the things and circumstances that defined you gone, just like that?”

Preston shifted, his expression thoughtful. “When you put it like that, it’s a wonder she’s been able to adjust so well.”

Nick glanced over at him sharply. “Has she?”

Preston frowned back. “Well, yes. She’s a strong leader, Nick. She’s done so much for the Minutemen already, and we’ve barely started.”

“Actions aren’t necessarily a measure of acclimation, Garvey,” Nick said.

“Well what would you have me measure it by, Nick?” Preston shot back. “It’s not like she’s the most open woman in the world. She acts like it, sure. She’s plenty friendly. But the General keeps a lot to herself. And I don’t fault her for it. I certainly don’t expect her to confide everything in me. I’m her subordinate first, advisor second, and friend last.”

“Glad you’ve got the chain of command figured out, then. Wouldn’t want your priorities getting confused,” Nick said sharply. He regretted it almost instantly.

Preston gave him a measured look. “That’s how it is, and I knew it when I offered her the job. So you’ll forgive me if I work with what I’ve got here.” He looked down. “Not everyone’s as great a detective as you, Nick.”

“Even so,” Nick said. “She’s a certainly a strong woman, nobody’s going to call that into question. But even for someone as resilient as she is, this is a lot to deal with. I’m not sure -”

He broke off, glancing at Nora. Preston did the same, their discussion set to the sidelines for the moment. She was stirring, but jerkily, like she was coming out of a dream. Nick reached over, laying a hand gently on her arm as he said her name.

Nora tossed her head, like she was trying to pull away. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, but Nick had the sick feeling that she wasn’t seeing anything around her. They were glassy and distant, reminiscent of a chem user on an unpleasant trip. Beneath his hand, there was a tremor running through her limbs.

When her gaze finally fixed on him, there was a burning intensity to it, a desperation that Nick hadn’t seen in her before. Not when she had faced down a charging Yao Guai with nothing but a pistol. Not when she had hauled him out of a vault and hired him to find her child. It was uncomfortable to see, disturbing.

Her cracked lips parted a bit more, eyes wet and bloodshot. “Nate?” she whispered.

And there is was. The one word that sent an unreasonable pang through his chest. He  _ knew _ she was delirious with fever; but somehow, the idea that she couldn’t recognise him despite that was a harsh one. Even still, he couldn’t find it within himself to be jealous. Certainly not as she called her murdered husband. He knew all too intimately the absolute emptiness, the hollowness that came hand in hand with that kind of loss. The spectre of Jenny lingered and whispered still, the echo of a world and life long gone.

Nick could practically feel Preston’s questions building up behind him. He ignored the man in favor of brushing the hair out of Nora’s eyes. “Nora?” he asked, tone guarded. “It’s me, Nick.”

She didn’t seem to hear him, gesturing weakly with one arm. “Thank God, Nate,” she rasped. “You’re here, you’re really here.”

Her hand found his, even shaking as it was, and she slipped her fingers into his. The remaining wires that gave him feeling in his ravaged metal hand burned with a faint fire. There was a lump in his throat as he tried to respond. “Nora, I -”

Nora, surprisingly, cut him off, tossing her head feverishly again. “We have to find him, Nate.” Nate wasn’t entirely sure the hitch in her voice was completely because of the fever. “Do you understand? They’ve got him, Nate. They’ve got our baby and I don’t - I can’t -”

She slumped, some of the frantic energy slipping away. “I have to get him back. We have to find him.” The grip on Nick’s hand briefly tightened.

Preston’s voice to the side was tight, pained. “We’ll find your son, General. Together.”

Her eyes shifted focus, the movement abrupt. “No, I can’t - I’m not -” She broke off again, her breath becoming rapid. Her hand pulled weakly away from Nick’s. “This isn’t right, this isn’t - I need to -”

Nick gripped her shoulder, worried. “Nora? I need you to breathe, ok? Focus on that.”

Nora shook her head, squirming under him. “No, you don’t understand,” she said. Her voice was low, hoarse. “I can’t do this, I’m not supposed to be here.” Her eyes squeezed shut, the tears finally welling out. “I don’t know what to do, Nate.”

Nick tried reassuring her. “Don’t worry, Nora. We’ll handle this together, like we have with everything else.”

Preston’s brow was furrowed even as he tried to sound optimistic. “I’ll second that. You’re the General. We’ll follow you wherever you need to go.” The smile he gave her was certainly genuine. “I trust you to make the right calls. Don’t worry.”

His words, despite their intent, seemed to do the very opposite of calming her. Nora twisted away, her tone carrying a note Nick had never before heard from her. “No, no no.” She fixed on Nick again, her voice broken and pleading. “They’ve got it all wrong, Nate. You’re the soldier, and I’m just - I can’t -” She choked, lost for words. “I’m nothing,” she whispered. “I’m just a fraud, and I’m lost, Nate. I’m so fucking lost and I can’t see any way out. I shouldn’t be -  _ you _ should be here. You’d know what to do. You’d find Shaun, and I...I….”

Nora trailed off, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know what to tell him,” she said faintly. “It’s a lie, all a lie. We’ll fail and fall and it will be my fault, and I don’t know how to tell him.” She swallowed convulsively even as the life slipped out of her. “I’m terrified, Nate,” she whispered. “What if he’s dead? What if it’s already over and there’s nothing to fight for?”

Her eyes drifted closed slowly. As she drifted off, she muttered softly. “...don’t know where it ends…”

Like he was autopilot, Nick reached for her throat, taking her pulse. He pushed away the cloud of unease and focused on her heartbeat. Fast, but not dangerously so. The rhythm was a steady distraction. His fingers lingered there longer than they should have, but for a moment, he was beyond caring.

“She’ll be fine, I think.” Nick announced softly. “Just asleep again.” He drew away reluctantly, settling down onto one of the two chairs next to Nora's bed. The plastic and metal creaked petulantly as he shifted. He glanced back at Preston, about to speak, then stopped.

Garvey looked like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He stared at Nora, his expression troubled. The sight was a surprise to Nick; he hadn’t expected that visceral of a reaction from the man to Nora’s ramblings. They were hard to hear - painful even - especially for Nick. But he hadn’t quite expected Preston to be this struck by them.

Deciding he didn’t want to wait until Garvey came out of his state, Nick narrowly resisted the urge to obnoxiously snap his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Garvey,” he said firmly, choosing the path less likely to get him punched.

Preston blinked slowly, refocusing on Nick. He took longer to speak as well, his mouth working a couple of times before he found his voice. “Is...is that -?”

Nick waved a hand, attempting to set aside his own concerns. “It’s the fever talking. It can be….” He searched for the words, his throat tight. “It’s difficult, seeing her like this, but like Marcy said, she’ll be better soon enough.” He glanced at Preston again. The man seemed oddly put off over Nora’s condition. He still wore the same expression, only now he was shaking his head. “Preston? What is it?”

Preston ran his fingers through his short curls in an anxious movement. “Is that really what she thinks?” he finally managed. “About us? About her place in the Minutemen?”

Nick straightened, surprised. “That’s what you’re worried about?” It came out harsher than he really intended it. But off all the reactions he had been expecting from the man, this wasn’t among them. “What she thinks about you?”

“No, I - “ Preston dropped his hand helplessly. “I mean, did you hear her, Nick? She thinks she can’t do this, that she’s somehow -”

He bit down on whatever he’d been about to say, his jaw clenched. “This is all my fault.” His voice was low with defeat.

“Now look, Garvey, not everything is -” Nick started.

Preston cut him off. “I’ve got a lot of mistakes in my book, Nick, you know that better than most. It’s past time I started taking some responsibility for them.”

Nick shook his head. “And what, you thought she was thrilled when you offered her this damn job?” The guilt that ran through Preston’s eyes was answer enough. “In case you haven’t noticed it yet, Nora doesn’t really have it in her to say ‘no’ to anyone in need. But I think you knew that,” Nick continued. “You knew you were taking advantage of her good nature. And I suppose that’s fine, since she was willing to let you. Hell, Nora’s a damn clever woman. I haven’t a doubt that half the reason she took your offer was to use whatever resources the Minutemen had left to help her find her  _ son _ .” Nick jabbed a skeletal finger towards Preston. “You just didn’t want to think about the consequences of throwing a woman from a different time, a different  _ world _ , into the middle of ours.”

Preston dropped his gaze, unable to meet Nick’s. The swell of irritation in Nick’s chest subsided as he did. He sighed heavily. “However ill-equipped or ill-suited to being the General Nora feels, though - it’s not your fault. You offered her the job. She took it, for her own reasons and motivations, yes. But she wasn’t forced into it, not by circumstance, and not by you.”

Preston shook his head, more firmly this time. In in abrupt movement, he stood. “You’re wrong, Nick. What you were saying earlier, about waking up in a different world...I should have known.” He forced on his boots in a rush, grabbing his coat from the sofa. “I need to think. When she wakes up -”

He paused, obviously torn. Nick stood up as well. In the corner, he could see Dogmeat’s curious eyes glinting in the stove’s firelight. Preston finished buttoning his coat and said, “Will you tell her I’m sorry? Please?”

“Tell her yourself. I won’t do the talking for you,” Nick said. It came out colder than he meant, but he was almost beyond caring. “In any case, she won’t remember this. The woman’s out of her mind with fever, Garvey.”

Preston shook his head again. “Doesn’t make any of what she said wrong. I’ll...I’ll be back later.” With that, he lifted his hat from the stand and yanked open the door, squeezing out against the cold wind that pushed in.

Nick was left standing in the empty room, feeling like a train had just run through the house. Absently, he walked over to the table, where he had left Nora’s book. It took a moment, but he found the page where the drawings started again. The charcoal figures stood out against the yellowed paper. He could almost follow the patterns in the strokes, the way Nora’s hand had moved when she made them. It was mesmerising, soothing. Pictures of a man he had never met, a child he had only seen grown and in someone else’s memories, seemed to go on and on. In his numb bravery, Nick began going through the drawings, ignoring the niceties that had stopped him before. The strange man on the paper smiled, laughed, brooded over a newspaper, was sleepy over coffee, and slept curled on his side. The sketches continued for pages.

Until suddenly, there was someone else. A familiar figure stood yelling at a closed gate, gesturing widely. Elsewhere, she smiled and fiddled with a pen. And Piper wasn’t the only one. In the corner, Preston leaned on a shovel, as if he had paused in his work. Dogmeat looked upwards endearingly. Even dear old Mayor Hancock made an appearance, talking to a tall man in a trench coat. And on the next page…

There he was. In all his tattered glory, glancing back at the viewer. It took a moment for the images to sink in, before he realised who she had drawn. Nick moved his fingers over the drawing, careful not to smudge the charcoal. She had filled up most of a page with him. On one of the edges was a careful rendering of his bad hand. She had stopped halfway through shading a sketch of him sitting on a riverbank, as if she couldn’t get it quite right. In the center of the page, he was staring at the ground, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

It was strange, like looking in a mirror that threw back a distorted reflection. He wondered when she had done these,  _ why _ she had drawn him. Was he just an interesting subject? Was it because they had spent so much time together? Or maybe - but no. Nick shut that thought down as quickly as it came, smothering it as best he could.

He looked at the drawings for a long time, flipping back through the other pages every now and then. At some point, Dogmeat got to up and jumped onto Nora’s bed, curling at her feet. The stove-fire died down after a while, the light fading slowly away. The wind rose to a shrieking pitch for some time, before gradually diminishing as the storm passed. Nora’s strained breath filled the quiet, comforting in its regularity. Preston never came back.

And still, Nick sat at the table. He stared at the sketches until he couldn’t see them anymore. His thoughts chased each other around in endless circles. He tried desperately to ignore the bitter ache in his chest, the helpless feeling weighing on his shoulders. And eventually, finally, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The procrastination pain train has come into station!! And a Happy Valentine's Day! (heh totally a pun) Glad I could finally get this ridiculous chapter finished and up. Hugs all around, and I'll see you (soon, I freaking swear k) with the next installment!


End file.
